


Alone Until I Get Home

by 2012bookworm



Category: The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, Pre-Canon, Red Room (Marvel), escaping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-14
Updated: 2017-03-14
Packaged: 2018-10-04 19:43:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,833
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10287731
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/2012bookworm/pseuds/2012bookworm
Summary: The plan is simple – her next mission, she will leave and not come back.  They will search for her, but she will have a few days head start, and that is all she needs to disappear.





	

She notices nothing strange until the day she pulls on a skirt and finds it barely zips. She looks down and sees her stomach – meant to be flat, perfect – bulges out above her hipbones. She is confused. There have been no changes in her diet, in her routine, no way for her to grow fat. In fact, she has been eating less lately, nauseous and tired. The exhaustion was easy to explain; it had been week after week after week of missions, with barely a day to rest between, but now, with the unexplained swelling of her lower abdomen, she wonders if something is wrong. She shakes her head and pulls on a shirt, tugging it down to show off her cleavage. At this moment, it doesn’t matter. Whatever is wrong, if something is wrong, it has not slowed her down yet. She leaves for her job as the pretty new secretary of an influential businessman who speaks out against the desert war that her organization is using to survive. Despite nearly a week of her best efforts, he has yet to look down her shirt. If seduction will not sway his stance, she will need to find a discreet way to kill him. Her handlers expect results within the next ten days.

****

Four days before she will be recalled, she decides death is the only option. It is not her preferred plan – messy, easier to make mistakes – and his death will not be as helpful to her organization as a sudden, unexpected show of support for the war. She put on a dress – looser than she has been wearing, but now that the plan has changed, form-hugging clothes are of little benefit. And besides, she has nearly run out of things that can hide her unexplained weight gain. Work that day is uneventful. As usual, she eats lunch with the receptionist, the only other woman on the floor, and makes the polite small talk. The receptionist plans to visit her daughter soon, “who is just a bit younger than you, dear,” and chatters on about their plans. She is glad for the inanity and one-sidedness of the conversation. It requires little of her attention, and she feels exhaustion pulling at her limbs and eyelids, even though it is barely noon. She picks at the salad she brought for lunch and nods in the appropriate places. By the time the receptionist thinks to ask how her knitting, a fake hobby she picked up as a way to bond, their lunch break is all but over. She returns to her office and spends the rest of the afternoon answering emails and creating the businessman’s schedule for the next week. Right before the end of the day, she gives him a stack of important contracts she kept hidden all day, claiming they were misfiled and guaranteeing he will stay late that evening. She leaves a bit early, claiming a date, and sneaks back inside towards midnight. It is far too easy to shoot him before he even realizes she is there.

****

She stages it to look like a suicide. His company had been hit by the recession, and some slight hacking done the day before makes it look as though he was about to lose everything. She arranges to find the body herself, walking into his office the next morning with a stack of files and faking a scream at the sight of his body slumped on the floor. When people come running, she points a shaking hand at his corpse and falls to the ground. She listens closely to the growing murmurs, the exclamations of shock and horror, and when the well-meaning receptionist bends down to check on her she pretends to wake.

“Oh, I’m sorry, I just… I….” she stutters at middle-aged woman, and promptly bursts into tears. The receptionist takes her into her arms and shushes her. When the police come, she plays the traumatized young woman flawlessly, clutching the receptionist’s hand and allowing her to bristle at the officers whenever she thinks they are pushing too hard. She is barely twenty, and looks it, and that along with her wide wet eyes and the receptionist’s militant mothering prevents any suspicion from falling on her whatsoever, despite her newness to the company. Even from the beginning, she’s pleased to see, barely anyone considers foul play. Once they discover the company’s forged financials, even that slight suspicion is gone. The mission is nearly complete, and in a few days she will be back in the compound waiting for her next assignment. She thanks the receptionist profusely for her support but does not accept the offer of a ride home.

****

It will not be hard to leave without suspicion; she will call in sick tomorrow and return to work the day after, only to fake an emotional breakdown and quit. Another day spent erasing her presence from the safe house that comprises her apartment and she can call the mission complete. That night, she calls in to report to her superiors, informing them of her progress and requesting an extraction in three days. They congratulate her on her success and tell her to make her own way back. They claim it will look less suspicious; she knows they do not wish to use the resources. The fall of the Soviet Union nearly spelled doom for the Red Room, but they have managed to survive. She is their last, and greatest, trainee, and they are determined to use her to regain their lost strength. She is proud, in some distant way, to be the asset they have chosen to lead their rebirth. She wonders, in an even more distant way, if this rebirth is really what she wants.

****

The next morning, when she calls to say she won’t be coming in, the receptionist makes sympathetic noises and tells her to take a few days if she needs them, no one will mind. She tells her thank you, hangs up, and sits at the kitchen table to clean her weapons and reorganize her kit. It is probable that she will be sent on another mission immediately after returning to the compound, and so it is better to take the time now to set everything in order, while she knows she has it. It does not take long, and by the afternoon she is feeling restless. She stands from the sofa where she has been flicking through channels, trying to match the different accents, and is abruptly, unexpectedly dizzy. She has never been truly ill, but she is sure now that something is wrong. She puts a hand on her stomach, which is still swollen a week later. There is no poison she knows of that works like this, and no reason for her to have been poisoned, but it is still a possible scenario. She wonders if her body is breaking down, and whether to tell her handlers, if they will punish her for not reporting it sooner or decommission her completely if she is found to be difficult to treat. She is valuable, she knows, but perhaps not valuable enough. The dizziness recedes, and she goes to get a glass of water, trying to tell herself it is merely dehydration that caused the vertigo.

****

When she returns to the office, the receptionist greets her with a hug. She forces herself to fall into it rather than stiffen.

“Oh, honey, you should have taken another day or so.” The receptionist tells her. “No one would have blamed you. It must have been horrible, finding him like that.”

“Yes,” she sniffs, still wrapped in the woman’s arms. “But I needed to come back, see if I could do it, you know?”

“Oh honey.” The receptionist holds her tighter for a moment before letting her go. “Well, I don’t know how much there is for you to do, in all honesty. Everyone’s a bit lost at the moment. The company’s going under, sounds like, and most people are scrambling to find new jobs before it’s too late. And you were his secretary, so unless you want to field calls about what happened….” The woman paused. This was going to be easier than she thought. No need to fake any sort of breakdown.

“Look, go home and start looking for a new job. It’s not good for you to be here, and I’m sure the timing’s not ideal, especially with a little one on the way, but –“

“Excuse me?” 

“I know you’re not probably not telling people yet, and most people couldn’t guess, you’re barely even really showing, but I’ve got three kids. I know the signs. Don’t worry, I won’t let anyone else know. Though you might think about wearing some different clothes, if you really don’t want people guessing.” The receptionist pats her shoulder. She manages, barely, to control her shock. What the woman is suggesting is impossible.

“I’m not pregnant.” She informs the woman, who merely smiles fondly at her.

“Like I said, I won’t tell. No, go on home and start polishing your resume. I’ll let HR know you’ve quit, tell them you couldn’t handle coming back after everything. The way things are going, they won’t question it.”

She dredges up a smile and a thank you and receives another hug in return, then walks out, her mind working over what the woman had said. She couldn’t be pregnant. They’d sterilized her years ago, as a teenager, before she was sent out on her first mission. Seduction was always meant to be part of her skillset, and they didn’t want her coming back with the enemy’s children in her womb. It was a practical decision, though she’d fought against it at the time. She thought over the symptoms of her strange disease. Nausea, tiredness, swollen stomach. Bile catching in her throat, she slipped into a drugstore on the way back to the safe house and stole a test.

When the test came back positive, she swore. While it wasn’t poison or an unknown disease, it wasn’t much better. She paced, one hand on her stomach. If she could feel the swelling, she was far enough along that they would assume she’d been trying to hide it, no matter how much she insisted she’d had no idea. They would punish her, of course, probably electroshock therapy. She was too much in demand for them to lock her away for a time and electroshock, while painful, left few marks, unlike a beating. They would punish her, and then remove it… She stopped. They would remove it. They had to. She was not meant to have children, and to do so would ruin her effectiveness. She would be all but useless while carrying a child. It was practical, to get rid of it, allowed her to return to her missions, return to the goal of reigniting the floundering organization. She pressed her hand harder against herself. She knew it was practical, she knew it must be done, but she wasn’t sure she wanted them to. Want was a strange concept. She wasn’t supposed to want anything except the good of the organization. But she thought, maybe, she wanted this. She resolved not tell her handlers, not yet. The punishment would be no worse for hiding everything a little longer. She could give herself time to think, time to explore this strange want. She carefully destroyed the positive test and began to sterilize the safe house.

****

It took her three days to get back to the compound, sneaking aboard planes and charming her way into rides when she didn’t steal them outright. She spent the time weighing, considering, trying to decide what she would do. She could not leave the organization – to do so was unthinkable. They had raised her, trained her, given her a purpose and a place. She did not think she could let them take away the thing inside her either. She reached the compound still conflicted, and stayed silent on the subject. When asked about the mission, she did not mention the receptionist’s quick eyes, only her gullibility. When asked if she had any need for medical attention, she told them no. They told her to stay in the compound and wait, new orders would come soon. She went to the small room they allowed her and did so, once again pulling out her weapons to clean. She was careful to move and act normally, careful not to rest a hand on her stomach, to turn away from the security cameras she knew were there while she changed. She spent two days this way, training as fiercely as ever, the smooth façade she wore at all times in the compound enough to fool even her handlers. She was still thinking over her dilemma when the other only other surviving asset walked into her room. When she was young, she was told to call this man father. She did not know if it was the truth, but he had helped raise her and her train her. He would disappear, sometimes for months, even years at a time, but he always came back. Sometimes he seemed to barely remember her, but when he did he would stroke her hair and call her маленький спайдер. She trusted him above all else. As she had grown older, she had wondered why the organization allowed their relationship to continue. It made sense for a child, to have someone to look up to and emulate, but she was an adult now, a full asset in her own right. Maybe they found it amusing. Whatever the reason, she was careful not to show too much enthusiasm for his presence, lest they decide to take him away for good. She stood up when he entered, but did not throw herself into his arms as she wanted to, as she had as a child.

“отец,” She said, nodding her head to him. “Have you completed your missions successfully?”

“Yes, маленький спайдер.” His voice was emotionless, his face blank. She had never seen him smile, but she understood the look in his eyes was fondness. “Have you served us well in my absence?”

“Yes sir.”

“Good.” He reached out a hand and touched her hair. His metal hand was cool. “We will spar, later. I wish to make sure your skills have not lapsed.”

“Of course.” She replied. He was offering her an opportunity. If she needed something, or had some question, she could whisper a time into his ear while they fought. He would know to come to her then, the security cameras blacked out in her room so they would not be seen. Maybe he would know what to do. 

****

When her door opened that night, she was sitting on her bed, the metal chair normally found in the corner of her room already placed in front of it. He sat before placing his hands on either side of her forehead and leaning their foreheads together, the closest they came to an embrace these days. She placed her hands over his. He moved his head away, but kept her hands, releasing them only after long look and a gentle squeeze.

“What is wrong, Nataschka?” 

She lifted her shirt, showed him. His eyes widened.

“I wish to keep it.” She told him as she pulled her shirt back into place. He reached his hand out, brushed careful fingers against her stomach. “Do you think they will let me?”

He moved his hand away, looked up at her. There was fear in his eyes, but also something else she couldn’t place, almost relief. He looked back down at her belly, then the hands carefully folded in her lap. He picked one up, stroked his thumb across the knuckles, stared at it instead of meeting her eyes.

“No.” He said, voice hoarse. She has only heard this tone once before, when she was bleeding against his hands during their last mission together. She fell unconscious soon after, and the next time she saw him, over a year later, he remembered less of her than ever before. “No. They will take it away, and make you forget it.” A flash of something close to fear runs through her. No matter what, she does not wish to forget.

“Then what should I do?”

He lifts his eyes to hers. “Run.”

****

The plan is simple – her next mission, she will leave and not come back. They will search for her, but she will have a few days head start, and that is all she needs to disappear. She asks him to come with her. He shakes his head and tells her he is needed to stall any pursuit. If they both disappear, the organization will devote most of its resources to finding them. If just she disappears, they will send him after her, and once he states she cannot be found, they will likely ease off their pursuit, knowing that at least one exceptional asset remains. He will be punished for his failure – they both know this. It makes no difference. It is what must be done. The thought of leaving him behind terrifies her. She has never been on her own, without some sort of mission to guide each decision. He could help, lead her as he has done before. She hides the fear, as she always has. He tells her that her mission, from now on, is to stay away, and protect the thing inside her. It will have to be enough. When he stands to leave, she stands too, and for the first time since she was a child he gathers her into his arms. The embrace is brief, but when he pulls away he places his hands once again on the sides of her head and lifts her gaze to his.  
“Go, my маленький спайдер. Be done with this place.” He runs his hand once more over the top of her head and leaves as quietly as he came. She replaces the chair in the corner and restarts the security feed, before crawling into her bed and pretending to sleep.

****

She receives a new mission the next day. She does not see him again before she departs. Another infiltration – good. It will take them even longer to notice she is gone. She reaches the apartment meant to belong to her cover and checks in with her handlers. They tell her to contact them again in three days. As soon as she hangs up, she picks up her kit and walks out into the night. Three days head start guarantees it will take them a long while to find her, if they can at all. She is suddenly grateful for her organization’s decline, when before it had been a mark of shame.

****

It is over two months later when the archer finds her. She has seen him before, always from a distance, and managed to elude him. She had told her handlers the second time – she had not bothered the third, fourth, or fifth. He was no real threat, and she found it mildly amusing to tease him. But now, it is growing harder to keep him from her trail. She is tired, moves slower, her center of gravity off, and she knows that very soon she will need to find some kind of semi-permanent safe house, before her growing belly becomes too obvious, before it ruins her ability to fight. She recognizes that she probably needs help, but there is no one she trusts. She has not seen any members of her organization in weeks, just the archer, who she begins to stalk as he has stalked her. She toys with the idea of killing him, this threat to her safety, but she cannot do so until she knows if he has allies, ones that would come after her as she would go after anyone who killed the man she called father. So she watches him, and discovers he works for an American intelligence agency, small but growing ever more powerful. She cannot kill him, then, not now when she needs to stop running, not without having back up of her own. So she continues to watch, and discovers he is something she learned to call kind, a sign of an easy mark. She wonders if she can convince him to help her, not for her sake but its. The more she watches the more she is sure of it. So she crafts a plan. It is not without danger, but she is confident in her ability to overpower him if necessary, even now. She waits, and watches, and one night when he leaves to wander the city, as he does nearly every night, she sneaks into his hotel room and hides in the shadows, weapons ready. When he enters, she points a gun at his head and tells him not to move. He does anyway, spinning to face her and dropping a knife into his hand at the same time. She expected no less, but she is still quick enough to dodge a thrown knife. He will not dodge her bullet.

“What do you want?” He asks after a moment of silence, his eyes focused on her hands, the little he can see of her face in the dark.

She lowers the gun, just a little, in a ploy to make him relax. It doesn’t work, which she finds interesting. He is better trained than she thought, from his apparent kindness. “Sanctuary.” She tells him. “Clemency.”

“You’ve killed a lot of good people.”

She shakes her head. “Not for me.”

“Who then?” 

She takes a step into the scant light coming in through the window, and unzips her jacket, moving slow and deliberate. She pushes the fabric aside so he can see the swell of her body, places a hand on her stomach. His eyes dart down from the gun in her hand and he swallows, nearly drops the knife. He keeps it raised, barely, but his movements are reluctant. She was right. Knowing this, he will no longer be able to kill her. It still remains to see if she can convince him to help.

“You’re pregnant.”

She nods.

“And your masters?”

“I left. They would have taken it away, made me forget. I did not wish to forget.”

He lowers the knife, looks at her, and then nods. “Ok.”

“Then you will help? You will keep it safe?”

He swallows again and meets her eyes. “You have my word.” 

She studies him. The declaration means something to him, enough for her to trust in its sincerity. He will help her, at least for a little while. She puts down the gun. He puts away the knife and rubs his hand over his face.

“Ok. First step, let me call my SO and tell ‘em the mission parameters have changed. A lot. That ok?”

She nods. He pulls a cellphone out of his pocket and hits a few buttons. While it rings, he paces. She watches him. It takes him crossing the room twice for the call to connect. She knows because he stills. He breathes deep.

“Hey, listen, there’s been a change in the mission. She, er, found me. And, well…. She wants to come in.” A pause. He sighs. “No, it’s not a trick. Yes, I’m sure. Tango India Foxtrot Lima, all right? No, I’m not being threatened, and no, I’m not compromised!” Another pause, and a groan. “Just trust me, all right? She’s left her old employers, and she wants to come in from the cold. All she’s asking is sanctuary. And if you won’t give it to her, I will. Look, you don’t want to bring her into the stronghold just yet, that’s fine. I’ll take charge of her for a while. It’ll be fine. You can come interrogate her about her motives whenever you want. Please.” A final pause, and she sees his shoulders loosen. “Yes, of course. We’ll be there in a few days. And thank you.” He hangs up. “I’m taking you to a safe house. My SO will meet us there, ask you some questions. He’s a little skeptical, but I’ll talk him around, don’t worry. We’ll leave in a couple of hours. Just got to arrange a few things first, clean this place up.”

“You didn’t tell him.”

“What?”

“You didn’t tell him. About.” She put a hand on her stomach.

“Oh, well,” He rubs the back of his neck. “I didn’t figure you’d want people to know if you could help it, and that line’s accessible to most of SHIELD. If he hadn’t given in, I’d have told him, but it wasn’t necessary. Just figured you’d want to keep it quiet.”

She studies him. He is right, but she did not think he was that perceptive, and even if he was, she did not think it would have mattered to him, what she wanted. Logically, it would have been easier for him to just explain. Instead, he argued with his masters for her. She allows for a glimmer of respect. She chose an ally well.

****

It is three hours before they leave. She helps him wipe the hotel room while he mutters into his phone. The calls net them a small, grey, compact car and two plane tickets leaving from a city a day’s drive away. He insists on driving. She curls up in the passenger seat and pretends to sleep.

****

It takes them three days to reach the states, trying to remain unseen. They do not talk, except to clarify plans or what is necessary for a cover. She appreciates his quiet, and notices the way he is constantly watching, both her and the surroundings. She understands – she is watching too. She wonders what he sees, and presents to him someone quiet and efficient, who fades into the background whenever possible. It is a persona meant to relax his scrutiny. It does not work. His eyes are unwavering, no matter how unobtrusive she makes herself. She is impressed. Most men are willing to dismiss her much more quickly than this, deciding that her reputation must be exaggerated. She encourages the dismissal. It makes them drop their guard. 

****

The safe house to which he takes her is a farmhouse in the middle of the country, isolated from its neighbors. He asks her to wait in the car and walks to the door, knocks. A woman opens it. They embrace. He leads the woman out to the car, where she waits, wary.

“Laura, this is Natasha Romanov. Romanov, this is my wife, Laura.”

Her respect for him diminishes. He is a fool to trust her enough to introduce her to his wife, a weakness she could easily exploit. Unless this woman is a plant, which she doubts.

“Hello, Natasha. Would you like to come inside? I hear you’ll be staying with us for a while.” The woman, Laura, smiles.

“Does she know?”

“What?” He asks, confused.

“Does she know what I am? What she invites into her house?”

The woman’s smile softens. “I know, and I’m still inviting you in. Now, come on. I’m sure you’d like a shower and a nap. Or are you hungry? I’ve got sandwich stuff if you’d like.”

She stares at the woman, bewildered. Laura places a hand on her arm and tugs her out of the car. She allows herself to be shepherded into the house, listening to the woman chatter all the way. She notices a smile on the archer’s face and is nearly positive this must be some kind of trap. But she could take this woman easily, and for now at least, she decides to just go along. She will watch, and if she needs to leave, she can.

****

Laura shows her to a bedroom upstairs, a small bathroom attached, and explains where to find towels. She says dinner will be in a few hours, but to come down anytime if she’s hungry for a snack. Then she leaves, asking if the door should be left open or closed. She shrugs, and the woman leaves it cracked. She takes in the room, searching for any kind of listening devices or other bugs, but it’s clear. The room itself is a decent size, with a window overlooking the side of the house, a sturdy wooden bedframe made up with a faded, flowered quilt taking up most of the space, and a low chest of drawers and matching bedside table. The walls are yellow, but a pleasant shade. The vase on the chest of drawers is empty, but she can imagine it holding wildflowers, like in the American movies she’s seen. She sneaks out of the room to explore the rest of the upstairs. There are three more bedrooms and a bathroom. One of the bedrooms obviously belongs to the archer and his wife, another has been converted into a study, and the third holds two twin beds. She finds the obvious gun safe in the study and the hidden one in the bedroom; she considers opening up the trapdoor to the attic but decides against it, preferring to wait until she knows the hinges don’t creak. She moves to the top of the stairs and listens, hoping to hear any conversation on the floor below. There is a murmur of voices, but it is too indistinct for her to make out words. She debates the merits of staying in her assigned room versus venturing downstairs. In the end, further opportunity to gather intelligence about the archer and his wife wins out over possible repercussions from insulting or scaring them. She refuses to admit to herself that a good bit of her decision is motivated by the fact that she is, in fact, hungry. She walks down the stairs, making noise so the two will hear her coming and in the process discovering any creaks. She goes into the kitchen to find Barton at the table with a sandwich and Laura chopping what appear to be potatoes next to the sink. The woman smiles at her.

“Hungry?”

She nods.

“Clint, make Natasha a sandwich. You’re not allergic to anything, are you?”

She shakes her head.

“Good. Any other preferences we should know about? Anything you really can’t stand?”

“No.” The question is a strange one. She is not allowed preferences when at the compound, and while her covers have them, those quirks are not hers. Barton has grabbed bread and a jar from a cabinet, and now is moving to the fridge. Laura smiles again and goes back to her chopping. Barton grabs a second jar from the fridge and proceeds to spread the two jar’s contents all over two slices of bread. He hands her the finished sandwich. She takes a cautious bite and forces herself not to react. It tastes good.

“What is this?” 

“Peanut butter and jelly sandwich,” he tells her. “Sandwich of champions, along with grilled cheese.”

She has heard of these but never tasted one. Peanut butter is an odd American food, and this kind of sandwich is not one offered in restaurants, where she could have tried it. She eats it quickly, standing up, still in the doorway.

“You’re welcome to sit down if you want.” He tells her, as she delicately licks a small drip of jelly from her finger. She slides into a chair that allows her to see both the room’s occupants and its exits. She wonders why he did not pick such a spot for himself, as he has on their journey. Perhaps he feels safe here.

“So, Natasha, Clint told me you’d be staying with us for a while, until SHIELD decides what they want to do. You need anything, ask one of us. Coulson – that’s Clint’s handler – will probably stop by in a couple of days to talk to you. He and a couple of other SHIELD guys are the only ones who know this place even exists, so it’s safe.”

She looks at the woman. “What did he tell you? About me.”

Another smile. They come naturally to this woman. “Just that you’d been employed by some bad people, done some bad things, and eventually ran away. And that you asked Clint for a safe place. And, well, this is the safest place he knows.”

She looks at the archer. “You didn’t tell her?”

“Wasn’t mine to tell, unless it became necessary. And Laura knows I’ve got a soft spot for people in trouble, didn’t mind me bringing home a stray.”

She bristles a bit at the word stray, though she guesses that is what she has become. No place and no one to whom she belongs. But he has given her a choice. She looks at the woman who took her in without question, and without the added sympathy a child could have gained her. It will be easier not to hide, and soon she will not be able to. She stands up and unzips the bulky jacket. Laura looks at her, and her expression becomes one of sorrow. She nods and turns to Barton.

“This is why you brought her here and not to SHIELD.”

“Part of the reason, yeah.” He tells her, shifting in his chair.

“Good.” She says, something hard and fierce in her voice. Laura turns to her, and, more gently, asks, “How far along are you?”

She shakes her head. “I don’t know. At least three months, probably more.”

Laura nods. “Ok. I’ll make an appointment with a doctor.”

“No!” She finds herself back in the corner with a knife in her hand. She looks at the archer, who is out of his chair. “You promised.” She hisses. “You promised they wouldn’t take it away.”

“Romanov.” He says, hands up, trying to seem calm. “Natasha. Not that kind of doctor.”

The woman makes a questioning noise. She is tense, but not frightened. The archer keeps his eyes on her, but directs his words to his wife.

“She ran because her masters would have made her get rid of the baby. She thinks you want to take her to get an abortion.”

The woman’s face falls, and she moves towards her, slowly. “Oh, honey. No, I meant an Ob/Gyn, someone who’ll tell you how far along you are, when the baby’s due, if anything’s wrong, things like that. Let you hear the baby’s heartbeat.”

The knife trembles in her hand. The woman inches closer.

“Its heartbeat?”

“Yeah, honey.” The woman stops just out of easy reach of the knife. She puts it away, aware of a slight tremble in her body. The woman moves in and wraps her carefully in a hug. “I swear, I will do whatever I can to keep you and your baby safe.” Laura whispers.

She is still, for a moment, before she gives in and grabs Laura back, holding onto her hard as the trembling turns to tremors.

“It’s ok, I’ve got you.” Laura’s hands rub her back.

“Thank you.” She breathes back.


End file.
